come, save the night
by vivafiction
Summary: and she hadn't even known she was in danger, until he saved her -—jean & mikasa.


come, save the night.  
**characters:** eren, jean, marco, mikasa.  
**tumblr prompt:** beginning at a funeral and ending after a first date.

…

_Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn._

…

There is a dream she dreams in the night before her days all become endless, the night before all of her days bleed together.

Mikasa doesn't remember the entirety of it, but it lasts for as long as she is asleep; it is the image of her own death, her body strung throughout the trees like a marionette, her final song. There is no explanation, nothing but the sound of the wind pressing through the trees, blowing through her hair.

She _feels_ herself hanging from her harness, bits and pieces of her broken underneath her skin, irrevocably damaged, but there is an odd sense of peace in the center of her chest, like a _resolve_, like she is _okay_ with her eyes wide open even in death.

It is frightening, but not ever as frightening as waking up.

…

"I don't know," she says with one of her knees tucked against her chest, "I can't explain it."

The sun slips its way into the shadows of her room where Eren sits on the edge of her bed. His eyes are so vivid underneath the glow of the sun that it casts her out of her body for a moment, as if the only true way she can appreciate the sunrise in his eyes is if she sees him from every angle, like a movie. It is only in places of fiction where things so beautiful exist, she thinks, looking into his eyes.

"So," he trails, dragging her thoughts back down to their conversation, "you're not sure _what_ you can't remember, just that you don't remember the things that you _should_ remember?" Confusion lingers in his voice and Mikasa bites her lip, thinking.

It'd all made sense when she'd thought enough to grasp his hand and pull him back to the edge of her bed in the first place, prolonging their normal morning rituals.

She should have just let him pull her blinds back and leave for breakfast.

"And what about this dream?" He scoots himself closer to her, folds his legs underneath him to watch her with eyes full of concern.

Mikasa can't even begin to explain how her dream makes her feel, but there must be something tell-tale in her eyes, because Eren sighs gently and curls his arms around her shoulders, nudges her head down into the bend of his clavicle.

It doesn't feel like a dream, she wants to tell him, it feels like her whole life.

…

He wakes her with a feather-light touch to her shoulders, but she screams regardless. And Mikasa claps her hands over her mouth, shrinks down into her chair while ignoring the clear gaze fixed on her. The library is a terrible place to be caught between dream and reality, and it is only when she blinks that she brings herself back to earth.

"Hey," she tilts her head up into Jean's face, takes in the sight of his worried frown and skylight grey eyes and the way his knuckles burst like little flares around the edges of his book, "are you okay, Mikasa?"

Her throat is still raw. Her body still feels like a burden, and she can't will either sensation away. "I'm fine," she mumbles over her hands, "just haven't been sleeping well." _I've been dreaming about dying_.

They're supposed to be studying, but Jean closes his book and sets it down on the table. She pictures a thousand words sitting on the tip of his tongue and from the way he parts his lips, she isn't far off, but she never hears his voice break the barrier of sound.

His chair scrapes up against the floor, and then he is gone.

…

"It's weird," he says quietly to his roommate, slumping into a chair at his desk, eyes faraway from everything surrounding him, "I get this feeling that I know her."

He can hear the sarcastic click of his teeth from atop his bunk, and it's all of Jean's energy not to toss something at him as he answers, "you do know her, you numbskull."

Instead, he clenches his fist tight enough to push blood from his pores, if he could. He lets go, stares at the half-moons his fingernails leave in their wake. "This is why I don't tell you things, Marco."

His roommate simply laughs, and Jean listens to the sound of him turning over in his bunk. And it's a strange concept to explain, so much that he can only bear to think it, knows there is no way to express it with words that have restraints. He is not as poetic, not as knowledgeable to be able to wield his words that way.

There is some part of him that knows her, that has lived a life or two or three for her, a new beginning at the end of one.

…

Another dream, but this time, it is different.

She cannot see anything but bright white light, as if she has looked into the sun for too long, but she can _feel_ so many things: she can feel hands underneath her jaw, a warmth wrapped around her completely, blood in her mouth threatening to drown her. She can feel the breeze blow through her as if she is in the treetops, as if she will just fly away.

She feels someone's fingers curled around her tightly, and then she feels nothing at all.

…

Eren walks hand-in-hand with her to the library, avidly retelling the Great Fire of their lecture hall with enthusiastic cues and mimicry of everyone around him. And Mikasa smiles, because he is a gem, because he is _her_ gem and her comfort and her resolve.

They have always been like this, as far as she can remember back, with their hands entwined and hearts bound to one another.

She couldn't love him any more if she tried, and perhaps that was the most beautiful their about their relationship. There was no one else in the world she could love the way she loved Eren, and yet their love was simple and platonic and, maybe, even stronger that way.

Because Eren kisses her cheeks because he treasures her, not for want of anything else but to see her happy.

The library is a warzone in the middle of the day, but it only takes her a few seconds to spot the shock of Jean's multi-colored hair, with his face pushed into a book and his shoulders hunched over the table.

Mikasa sits down opposite him, but he doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge that she is there. As she tilts her head to read the side of his book, he snaps it closed, and turns it away from her. His face is unreadable, but after a few seconds lapse, he smiles at her.

"You look better," he says, but she thinks it is a lie, "we can finally start our project now, can't we?"

Something is off, but she has to put together the pieces before she can ask him, so she nods and pulls her notebooks out of her bag. Jean doesn't say much to her as they read in silent tandem, occasionally highlighting and pointing out passages that they can use.

Fifteen minutes pass like a heavy sigh, and Jean is the one pushing his chair away from the table, stretching his spine in an arc with his fingers in his hair. Mikasa watches him, and finds something oddly prophetic about the way his body bends, beyond its limits.

"I'm tired," he says with his eyes closed, grips his chair as he stands up straight, and Mikasa watches him curiously. He doesn't say anything, though; he just waits expectantly.

Mikasa tips her head in a nod and then he leaves.

…

She sleeps comfortably, but she still dreams, with her eyes wide open.

Both of her dreams come together, a white light that shines through the treetops. She feels her body strung up between the branches, still feels the blood in her throat, still feels the hands all over.

Someone's fingers curl around the edges of hers, and when Mikasa tries to turn her head, blood only slips out of the corner of her mouth.

"Live," a gentle voice says in her ear, full of warmth, and then the grip around her fingertips falls slack.

…

"Marco," he asks when the streetlights gleam through their open windows at night, "you piece of shit, wake up."

He listens to his roommate groan and roll over onto what Jean presumes is his stomach, simply because he _knows_ Marco better than anyone should know anyone, and then listens as he tries to clear the rasp out of his voice.

"What do you want, Jean?"

He pauses, chooses his words carefully. "I'll be gone soon," he settles on, pillows his hands behind his head.

Above him, Marco shifts so his face is peering over the side of the bunk, bright eyes glowing through the partial darkness. His lids are only slightly cracked, trying to determine the seriousness of his statement.

In the end, he flips himself back onto his bed and yawns quietly. "Okay, Jean," he says casually, his voice falling almost silent, "it was nice knowing you."

…

Mikasa waits for him at the library. And it is unusual that she is so early, but Jean smiles at the sight of her eyes scanning her surroundings for him. She spots him, and stands up as he walks towards her, carefully measured steps.

"Mikasa—"

"Say it," she says quietly, with her lip worried between her teeth, and Jean sighs with his eyes closed.

"I know I need to," he smiles, approaches the table and stares down at the stacks of books in front of them. But Mikasa's eyes are fixed onto his face, so no matter how much Jean wants to revert to how things were before, he cannot.

It is his destiny to lead her to this moment. "I don't think I understand, though." Mikasa slumps back into her chair, and Jean sits down opposite from her. His hands clasp over the table thoughtfully, and it's hard to pick out the right words.

"Live," he whispers in that familiar noise, and Mikasa can feel the phantom pressure of his fingers wrapped around hers, "I just wanted you to live. And now that it's like this…I can't move on without telling you. You can't live, unless I tell you what you're living for."

He can see the confusion rippling across her features, but there is something in the corners of her mind that brighten with understanding. Her eyes widen, and then narrow again in realization.

"You have to say it, too."

Jean watches her face for what he thinks is the last time. Her features cinch, her lips are red and soft and Jean just wants to curl his arms around her again. He just wants to protect her from this, too.

Mikasa breathes deeply. "You saved me," she says in a hoarse whisper, taps her fingers against the tops of his hands, "you saved my life."

He smiles, and it flashes behind his eyes. And he thinks she can see it in her mind's eye too, because she is stunningly quiet as he watches it play through his mind.

…

"Mikasa!"

His scream is deafening in the trees, but the snag of her wires sends wind shouting into her ears, whips her around enough to see the massive titan that threatens to yank her out of the sky.

Her squad is staggered evenly throughout the forest, and the fact that Jean is even screaming in her direction is already too much. She feels her body careening backwards, watches Jean soar through the trees towards her.

There are no words for the expression on his face, simply that the sun blares behind his head and casts him into a bright shadow, glowing in front of her. The horror in the lines of his face doesn't dissipate, but Mikasa closes her eyes.

She feels someone's arms around her, hears a sickening crack and then feels her own body collide, hard. Blood wells in her mouth and Mikasa swings from the branches, blinking slowly.

Jean. It is Jean's body cushioning the blow of her own between the trees, Jean's fingers gripping hers tightly, Jean's voice leading her forward.

"Live," he whispers.

…

"I love you," Jean says to her before she cries, before she falls asleep one last time.

…

When she turns around, swinging in the treetops, there is a crooked alignment to Jean's jaw; blood seeps through the front of his jacket, and the light leaks from his cloudy eyes, the intensity of them drained completely. Mikasa doesn't have time to mourn, though she can feel the weight of it in her chest, and his fingers are still curled at her side.

Her fingers fumble weakly over her blades, and she has barely enough energy to cut herself—and Jean's flimsy skeleton—down from where they are trapped.

Mikasa hits the ground stumbling, and though she wants desperately to stay still, she knows she cannot.

After all, she owes him her life, owes him at least the courtesy of living it while he cannot.

…

_But I'd do it again. I know that now. I'd make that promise a thousand times over and lose her a thousand times over to have heard her play last night or to see her in the morning sunlight. Or even without that. Just to know that she's somewhere out there. Alive._


End file.
